Chapter Text
Caspar was used to marching.
Exchanging stories as the scenery around them changed—slowly, subtly—was not a terrible way to pass time during a long journey. Of course, marching back home was a much more pleasant experience than heading to battle; on those occasions, the idle chatting felt more like a grim prelude, or the calm before a storm.
Caspar recalled his days back when he served in the war as a general of the Black Eagle Strike Force, nearly five years ago now. He remembered marching with the certainty that the fight ahead would be a tough one. The anticipation before the attack was, perhaps, even more nerve-wracking than the battle itself. He also remembered feeling light as a feather whenever the proud tall walls of Garreg Mach appeared in the distance as they, the lucky ones, returned from the battlefield. On those occasions, he would turn around to look at his allies, his friends. On their weary, dirty faces, he would see weak smiles. A silent statement that they were grateful to have made it out alive. A sign that everything was going to be alright, at least until the next military campaign.
This time, however, as Caspar watched the city of Enbarr emerge from behind the steep hill they had just surmounted, the strange feeling of emptiness that preceded a battle overcame the young warrior. The warm winds of the Southern Sea lashed at his face. Silver snow still crowned the taller peaks of the Morgaine Ravine, to the west of the capital, but it was nothing compared to the harsh winters he had experienced in the Faerghus Dukedom. He clutched his chest, afflicted with a sudden acute pang of pain. The floodgates to an overwhelming sensation of uneasiness—a bitter feeling that had been haunting him ever since his company had received permission to return to Adrestia—were finally open.
Caspar inhaled.
He was finally home, but not quite.
He trudged silently alongside his comrades, barely registering the lively conversations around him as his thoughts ran wild. A young couple marched hand in hand—one wore the uniform of the Knights of Hevring, the other donned Imperial armor. Some of the younger recruits gathered around a battle-scarred veteran and listened to her gush about her dogs, wondering if they had missed her.
Caspar managed to muster a weak smile to himself, but it faded as he fixed his eyes on the horizon again. Perhaps under other circumstances he would have simply approached any of those groups and joined them in their idle chit-chat. He had always been of the opinion that making friends was as simple as striking a friendly conversation, but lately, he could not bring himself to be sociable. He lowered his head, and moved along.
Suddenly, a voice he recognized rang loud and clear throughout the valley.
“Ho, Caspar!”
People turned their heads towards its owner—a knight, fast approaching on a piebald horse. There were whispers among the crowd as he slowed down his pace to follow Caspar's own.
“Hadrian,” Caspar mumbled, barely even glancing at the newcomer. He did not need to. He could perfectly picture the benevolent look in the older man’s eyes.
“Everything alright?” Hadrian asked, stroking his mount's mane. There was a soft quality to his otherwise dry, raspy voice as he spoke to Caspar.
“Yeah! Yeah,” he said, nodding to himself.
Over the course of the five long years they had spent in former Galatea territory, Caspar had come to think of Hadrian von Aegir as a close friend. Like himself, Hadrian had been born a second son, to a secondary branch of the Aegir family in his case. Caspar saw the veteran knight as a reflection of himself, as he too had trained relentlessly from an early age to get somewhere in life despite his disadvantageous position. It was no wonder other recruits, especially those of common birth, also looked up to him. His story was one of success; hard work and determination had earned him a coveted position as the Personal Guard of Count Hevring.
The young warrior wondered if the opposite was also true, if Hadrian also saw himself in Caspar. Perhaps that was part of the reason why he appreciated his company, despite their differences. Whereas wise old Hadrian had mastered the arts of patience and obedience, Caspar was brash and often acted on his own accord, even if time and age had rounded off his more caustic edges. He did not have to do it, but on more than one occasion, Hadrian had helped get him out of trouble with the knights of Hevring, and even mediate between him and his direct superiors, the military officers from the Empire.
“We're almost to Enbarr,” Hadrian observed, wistfully gazing onwards. “You are sure you are coming to the Hevring estate with us, yes? Once again, I must insist—I can submit that letter of recommendation myself.”
“I don't really have anywhere else I have to be. As for the letter, I… I want to do it myself,” he added, patting his breast pocket, where he carried the neatly folded piece of paper. “I need to talk to him, Hadrian. I need to see him.”
Hadrian thoughtfully twirled his graying moustache. “Of course. Of course. I must not forget that the young maste—that milord and you are very close.” He squeezed the reins. “Well, if you need anything, you have but to ask. I am needed at the front, so I shall go on ahead now. Be seeing you again later!”
Caspar bid him farewell and watched as Hadrian spurred on his horse and galloped ahead, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more.
If the very idea of returning to Enbarr made him feel restless, it was mostly because of his impending reunion with Linhardt. He should not be feeling so intimidated by the meeting he himself had requested, but the truth was, he was terrified.
What would he even say to him after everything that happened?
“I’m sorry I dumped you via letter. I thought it would make things easier for you, would make it easier to accept that you were going to be married off to some noblewoman. I’m also sorry I broke my promise to you. Are we still friends?”
“Gah! What am I thinking?!” Caspar exclaimed aloud, so loudly that he turned heads.
No, he had promised himself he was going to be strong, for himself and for Linhardt. Caspar had been forced to make the hardest decision of his life, but there was no turning back from what had been done. He hoped that letting Linhardt go had been the right thing to do. Refusing to accept that things would never go back to the way they were—deluding himself by thinking they could still have their happily ever after? That would just cause more suffering for everyone involved.
The only selfish wish Caspar still harbored was that Linhardt still considered him a friend. Nothing less, nothing more. Their romantic relationship may have been short-lived, but hopefully, their friendship was stronger than that. Nothing else mattered to him more than supporting his life companion in any way he could, and if requesting a position in the order of the Knights of Hevring was the easiest way to stay close to him, then he would hand in the letter of recommendation Hadrian had written for him.
With that thought in mind, Caspar slapped his cheeks, and marched in the only direction he could go—onwards.